


Remembering Okay

by NoLongerInThisFandom (write_away)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, M/M, do not read if you don't like angst, this is serious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/NoLongerInThisFandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people don't call, and that's okay.</p><p>At least, Carlos thinks so. He doesn't really remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. I wrote an angst-fic. I'm sorry, fandom, I'm sorry.

Sometimes people just don’t call, and that’s okay.

At least, that’s what Carlos tries to think when his Night Vale clock reads a quarter past midnight and Cecil still hasn’t returned his voicemail.

Maybe the station kept him late, he tries to reason.  Or maybe he just fell asleep. Or maybe the call didn’t go through – that would be the most normal, if slightly less probable, thing to happen to a phone call in Night Vale.

So he tries not to worry, tries not to panic about re-education and death, because sometimes, people don’t call back and that doesn’t mean they’re not okay.

_(In the back of Carlos’s mind, he knows that Cecil always calls to say goodnight, no matter what sort of terror he’s facing today.)_

* * *

 

It’s three days until Carlos can get in touch with Cecil again, though he tunes into the radio every night to listen to his smooth voice. It’s not the voice he’s used to – not the one Cecil will whisper endearments with when they’re alone, and sometimes when they’re not – but it’s still reassuringly _him_ , and even though Cecil still won’t return his calls, Carlos is relieved.

When Cecil finally picks up the phone, he says he can’t talk right now and hangs up.

He’s never done that before.

Carlos doesn’t know why that hurts so much.

* * *

 

Cecil is staring at him with betrayed eyes, his back pressed against the wall and his lips, a faint shade of violet, are rounded in a wordless “oh” of surprise. He blinks once, twice, three times to clear away the watering, his eye color shifting with every shut of his eyelids, and usually Carlos would be entranced, but today, he’s just angry.

“You haven’t returned my calls in two weeks!” he shouts. He doesn’t care if the Sheriff’s Secret Police hears him, hell, he doesn’t care if the entire neighborhood hears. “You can’t just show up at my door like nothing is wrong _when you haven’t spoken to me in fourteen days!”_

Cecil’s cheeks flush deep purple and his eyes flick downward, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I just – I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to text me that you won’t be around?” Carlos demands. He’s not exactly angry, but he doesn’t know _what_ he is. Emotions swirl within him like a storm, a hurricane and a blizzard colliding. “Too busy to respond with a heart when I text you that I love you? What have you been _doing,_ Cecil?" 

Cecil shakes his head and wipes at his eyes. “I – I’m sorry, Carlos,” he says again. This isn’t his radio voice – it’s not even his normal, everyday voice. This is broken and defeated beyond his usual existential crises. This is something he’s never heard before. It makes his heart feel like it’s splitting into two.

Maybe it is. You never know in Night Vale.

"Are you in trouble?” Carlos asks more gently, lowering his voice and turning toward Cecil, now achingly aware of the Sheriff’s Secret Police’s probable presence. “Do you need help? Do you need to… to get out of Night Vale?” He reaches out to touch Cecil’s cheek, but withdraws at last second, tucking his hand back into his lab coat pocket.

Cecil shakes his head. “No, no, no trouble. I – I’m a good citizen. I – I follow all the rules.” He’s speaking out and louder, and his pointed look urging Carlos to do the same is so _normal,_ so Cecil, that it pangs even further. “No trouble here at all.”

“Cecil,” Carlos begins, but he doesn’t know where to go, so he stops and hangs his head. “If you can’t tell me what’s wrong, maybe… maybe we need to break,” he says finally, sighing. He can’t look at Cecil’s face, can’t bear to look at his own heartbreak reflected back at him.

Cecil makes a little distressed noise at the back of his throat. “I’m _sorry_ , Carlos. I’ll – I’ll be better, I’ll call you more, I’ll – I’ll – I _promise_. I just – you’re in _danger_ and you don’t _understand,_ I just want to help you, I’ve just been trying to save you, I just -” His breath hitches and Carlos’s heart doesn’t just crack, it _shatters_ , because he never wanted to be the reason this wonderful, impossible man cried.

Carlos opens his front door and waits until Cecil leaves before he breaks down. He wonders if the Sheriff’s Secret Police will leave him a box of tissue like they did last time, or if breaking the Voice of Night Vale’s heart crosses a line somewhere.

_(They don’t leave tissues, but he hears that Cecil receives chocolate and wine the next day.)_

* * *

 

Night Vale is, strangely, not more strange after that night. Carlos continues to run his experiments with a dull ache in his chest, the radio program has only one brief mention of their argument, and life goes on.

Cecil doesn’t call him, but Carlos hadn’t really been expecting him to.

* * *

 

It’s another rmonth before Carlos even realizes the ache beginning to fade, the memories of happy times beginning to dissolve in his mind. He stares at the old little typed love notes from Cecil and questions whether or not to call him again, whether or not to try to talk and work things out, but he finds he can’t remember his number.

He digs the little business card out of his papers and dials the number, but it’s disconnected.

When he listens to the radio that night, the Voice sounds slightly different.

He goes to find a picture of Cecil, a recording, _anything_ , but somehow, they’ve all disappeared.

* * *

 

After two months, he’s beginning to forget things, important things, like how to get home from the lab, and how to turn off his oven, and what Cecil looks like. Sometimes, he wanders around his house, trying to figure out how to get to his bedroom, or undress. Sometimes, he doesn’t even bother to do that and falls asleep fully clothed on the couch.

It’s frightening, a part of him recognizes, but that part is weak and dull and feels like fire every time he tries to acknowledge it, so he stops trying.

He listens to the radio, but it’s not Cecil anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

In four months, Carlos only remembers his own name because he’s written in on every item he owns. It’s a struggle to use a fork, to eat, to _walk_. His experiments fall to the wayside because he doesn’t know how to conduct them anymore. His phone fills with voicemails from his family because he hasn’t picked up in God knows how long. He wants to call them back, but there’s only one number he seems able to dial.

He doesn’t remember whose it is, only that it’s disconnected.

One night, he manages to flick on the radio.

He cries and he doesn’t know why.

 

* * *

 

 

He chokes on air, because it seems he’s forgotten how to breathe. Even though breathing is now voluntary in Night Vale, his body still demands for oxygen. He doesn’t think anyone will come to his aid, because who would?

He calls for help with a gasping breath anyway.

A Sheriff’s Secret Police officer breaks down the door within second sand is kneeling at his side, rolling him on his back and breathing air into his lungs until they operate on their own, gentle hands stroking his hair back from his face, a soothing voice murmuring sweet sounds as his vision clears of black and his name slowly comes back to him.

_(He thinks he may have to have it tattooed onto his arm soon, just to stop himself from forgetting.)_

The man above him has tears in his eyes, his face pale of the sweet purple blush it usually has – _and Carlos doesn’t know why he knows that this man blushes purple, but he does_ – and it seems like _he’s_ having trouble breathing now, but Carlos can’t do anything but lay there.

“Carlos, _oh Carlos,_ I told them not to, I told them you didn’t deserve this, oh my sweet Carlos,” the man is murmuring. “You don’t deserve this, oh no.”

Carlos tries to speak, but it comes out like a croak. He doesn’t know if he remembers how to do that.

The man shushes him and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I stopped calling, I’m so sorry. They – I needed – you were breaking _so many rules_ , Carlos, I had to protect you, you didn’t even know – you don’t even know.”

Carlos doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s sure if this man had ever spoken to him before, he would have remembered it. His voice is perfect, beautiful even.

“I – I joined up to protect you,” he whispers, picking at his badge. “But – it was too late. You – they already targeted you, they’ve been targeting you for ages, Carlos, before I could even do anything.” He sobs and Carlos reaches out to touch his cheek, to stroke the smooth skin once.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. The movement feels familiar, comfortable, and an unfamiliar pang in his chest hits. “Don’t – don’t cry.”

The man shakes his head. “They’re going to strip you away from yourself,” he manages through his tears. “They’re going to do it. They’ve been doing it since you got here.”

Carlos blinks and stares. “Got where?” he asks. 

The man only cries harder and harder and eventually, Carlos falls asleep in his arms.

_(It feels right, even though he doesn’t remember why.)_

* * *

 

Carlos is learning again.

He doesn’t know where he came from, he barely knows who he is, but the nurses tell him that an anonymous caller is the one who saved him. He had a note tucked in his pocket when they found him in the middle of the dessert, telling his name, his profession, his age, and for some reason, Carlos stares at the handwriting and thinks _illegal._ Machines bleep and stir around him as they try to teach him important things, like how to walk and eat and tie his shoes, but something feels wrong. He keeps expecting something to attack him, to spring to life, but when he tells the doctors this, they just shake their heads and up his dose.

He listens to the radio every night, hoping to hear a certain voice, but he doesn’t know which one he’s waiting for.

He has a phone - the phone they found him with, a charge tucked in his other pocket – and he seems to go on auto-pilot when he uses it, dialing the same number again and again, waiting for someone to pick up, even though nobody ever does. 

Sometimes, people just don’t pick up the phone.

He thinks that’s okay, but he doesn’t really remember.

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of Cecil becoming SSP, because I headcanon that he's an informer as it is. So, yeah. This happened, at poor Carlos's expense. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading. Feedback is the best!


End file.
